Found this in an old LOCUS. It will have meaning to few beyond its meaningful words. He’s missed, not just by us, his fellow Cultists.
The Spirit’s Lament
I have spent years denying afterlife.
It seemed the thoughtful, rational thing to do.
When others said (especially my wife)
They’d seen a ghost or maybe even two,
I took it with a grain of salt, for few
Were ever documented to my taste,
And Occam’s Razor said that ghosts were too
Irregular. These feelings were misplaced.
We argued, she and I, and fin’lly faced
The fact that no agreement could be made.
I learned, too, as she moved with all due haste,
That other hands than Occam’s own a blade.
I’ve changed. I do believe (now that I’m dead)
In ghosts and afterlife. But where’s my head?
–John S. Davis, Cultist, friend, fallen comrade
“Death shall not release thee.” — Cult Motto
///
For those who do not know, there was once an Amateur Press Association ‘zine called FANTASY ROTATOR. Fantasy because that was the type of reading material members held in common esteem, Rotator because publication rotated through the thirteen members of the Cult. Any number could receive and contribute letters of comment to FR but only Cult members could edit and publish, and each was obligated to pub on time, sent a minimum of 13 copies out, and maintain an accurate roster.
The group of editors/publishers was called The Cult as a whimsical nod to there being 13 members. It was also difficult to enter and impossible to leave. “Death Shall Not Release You” was a motto. It meant that not even dying got you taken off the roster, nor technically relieved you of the duty to pub you ish every thirteenth month.
The Cult were known as The Nastiest Bastards In Fandom, an irony because all were gentlefolk and scholars, unless riled. Which they often were, come to think of it.
In true Cultic fashion they studiously avoided discussing the common interest of fantasy fiction and focused instead on gripes, grumps, and grumbles. An occasional grope may have arisen from time to time. Personal letters full of chatty private detail was the norm, with travel and convention reports a welcome spice.
Out of sheer stubbornness, FR became the oldest extant fanzine in fandom, until electronic media and a lack of fresh blood, or younger folks interested in publishing it, brought FR to a halt. I was proud to have been dragooned into it by George Himself Scithers, and served as a Cult member for many years.
I also contributed the Bucketeer cartoons. These consisted of three hapless Cult members wearing long robes and buckets on their heads, with the captions culled from comments made in the prior issue. Bucketeers because another way of referring to The Cult was A Bucket To Hell, a variation on the notorious Handbasket.
My Cult identity was Old 815, which linked nicely to Scithers’s obsession with locomotives despite being based on an address I’d once had. Such was The Cult in all its inept glory. Long may The Bucket (of Blood or whatever we were) dangle.
